Archive | September, 2012

An Anniversary and A Marriage Made in Heaven…..Strawberry Frozen Yoghurt

30 Sep strawb yoghurt 2

Tomorrow is Mister H and my second wedding anniversary.

If I had a hat, I would surely have been clinging onto it because we’ve had one hell of a ride, if you think about it. Life is really quite an adventure, huh?

International jaunts in the guise of honeymoons, a seriously grown-up mortgage, a move from the urban cool, to the suburban un-so, watching our delightful little man grow from a baby into a boy, and of course, our darling baby girl joined us and three became four.

One hell of a couple of years, indeed.

In fact, if we continued this trajectory, with this speed, our heads may well implode by our tenth anniversary, which would be a shame as I’m looking forward to making it to the tin gift, as I’ve always wanted a genuine billy can.

Mister H and I broke up for a time in our early dating period….. Or to be more precise, Mister H broke up with me.
What an idiot.

When he realised he’d made a terrible fuck up faux pas, one of his wooing techniques was to whisk me away to Port Douglas for a weekend of romance. I was making him work pretty hard for the honey, but I relented in the case of a tropical, all-expenses paid, weekend away in Far North Queensland.

One morning, we were walking along the romantic, crocodile infested, waterfront when we happened across a stunning little, white weatherboard chapel amongst the palm trees.
It had stained glass windows, and housed maybe 50 people at a push, and I fell in love…..With the chapel, not Mister H. I was still cranky as hell at him.

I’m going to get married there one day, I murmured, all glassy eyed, but not thinking him.

Just someone special.

Anyhoo, fast forward 12 months or so and he did propose to marry…. And as you may have guessed I said -

‘Sure thing, Sugar Lips, let’s get hitched’

Sorta. That’s what I wished I said. That would have been cool, huh?
What I actually said was along the lines of -

‘You’re not just saying that because I’m up the duff, are you?’

I’d pushed that chapel incident far to the reaches of my mind, so imagine my surprise when I asked my Dutch husband-to-be, with friends and family all over the world, where he would like to get married?

Port Douglas. In a little chapel.

Someone special, indeed.

Strawberry is the fruit of love and they’re damned cheap and delicious at the moment. Each tasty, little, red gem is like pure sunshine on your tongue.
I can truly see why they’re the fruit of love…..and the food of love? Ice cream, of course.

‘Tis surely a marriage made in heaven?

I wanted to make a creamy, yummy, strawberry frozen yoghurt but every time I’ve used fruit in an ice cream it’s gone icy and poo.

I realised my favorite fruit ices were often delicious swirls of fruit that actually tasted more like jam than pureed fruit, so after a couple of experiments, I came up with this.
It’s easy, it’s healthy, and it tastes like love in a bowl.
This can be made either with an ice cream machine or without….something for everyone.

Yield – about a litre

You will need -

  • 300g fresh strawberries, hulled, and chopped
  • 150g castor sugar
  • 700g good quality Greek yoghurt

Throw your strawberries and sugar into a heavy based pan over a low heat on the stove. Cook down, stirring occasionally, for 45 minutes or so until it’s quite jammy and strawberries look kind of clear and gummy.

Icecream machine -
Chuck your yoghurt into the machine and turn it on, stirring in all but 2 tablespoons of your strawberry mixture. Churn as per machine directions (about 15-20 minutes), then transfer into your freezer container. Dot your remaining strawberry mixture on the top and then swirl it through gently with a spoon.
Freeze for 3-4 hours until firm.

In freezer without machine -
Mix your yoghurt and all but 2 tablespoons of strawberry mixture in a bowl and place in the freezer. Every half an hour, remove from freezer and stir vigorously breaking up all of the ice around the edges and making it smooth again.
Repeat about 4 times until it’s almost a soft serve consistency.
Dollop your remaining strawberry mix around the top and then swirl through.
Freeze for a further 3-4 hours until firm.

This would work with almost any fruit by my guess. I can’t wait to try nectarine, and peach….oh, and mango.
I don’t generally give D Man store bought ice-cream yet, but he loves this and I have very little guilt giving it to him. There’s a bit of sugar, but whatevs… preservatives, no hidden nasties and sweet, sweet fruit of love.

My Love To Jill Meagher

28 Sep

I read an article the other day saying that the biggest thing females have to fear is being female.

We fear sexual assault. We fear domestic violence. We fear abduction. If we are poor, we fear being trafficked. If we are rich, we fear what researchers say all women fear the most – we fear rape.

I didn’t think too much about it, except to nod my head and say yeah, I guess I fear that more than sharks and spiders. That is indeed a big fear.

These days I’m less and less in the position where something like this may occur, but after two sexual assaults in broad daylight in the last six months, it’s obvious that anything can happen any time.

Our news has been dominated for the last week by a raven haired beauty with a wide open smile. Her name was Jill Meagher, and she is just like us. Middle class, nice job, nice clothes, and after a nice night out with friends the unthinkable happened.

She was walking home from a bar on Friday night and she never made it to her safe, warm bed.
It was a notoriously dodgy route, and it was dark, but her greatest fault was simply that she was a woman.

They released CCTV footage that showed her walking on her merry way when she was stopped by a dude in a blue-hoodie and she had a chat. She was 450m from her home. She continued walking and then that is the last anyone saw of her until her raped and battered body was found 50km from there last night.
When the man in the hoodie stopped her, presumably with a question, I wonder if her greatest fear was rape or violence?

I wonder if ever there was a man who walked home late at night, a bit pissy, and thought, I better keep my wits about me, I don’t want to look vulnerable?
Just by being born a woman you’re automatically at risk from the physically stronger sex. Of course, very few men are capable of such atrocities but it only takes one, doesn’t it?
My mind is reeling with the unjustness of it. The insanity of it.

I’m deeply saddened by this news of Jill. I guess we all hoped maybe she’d be found alive.
I send so much love to her, that poor scared girl, and I wish it ended differently for her. I cannot imagine her horror.

I send equal amounts of love to her family, for although she will live on in their hearts, in their imagination they will always ponder the terrible details.

I’m so sorry, Jill. I’m so sorry for you.

A Letter To Myself, One Month On – September

27 Sep

Hey you,

I thought I would jump up and write this to you today because today seems to be an auspicious day.
Last night was KiKi’s best sleep in about 6 weeks, and just one good night makes you feel as though there is light at the end of the tunnel, and that light is not a train.

You woke with such great optimism and pep that you were even brave enough to jump on the scales. Finally, after a million batches of biscuits, you are only 500g from your pre-baby weight. You know deep down you don’t deserve it, but all that lack of sleep has to be good for something, right?
Very jammy, darling. Very jammy indeed.

It’s amazing how a skinny day and good sleep can make the world seem a better place. You can do anything today –  even leap tall buildings in a single bound! Best make sure you wear trousers though as a skirt could leave people with retina damage.

It’s been a lovely month. Having your Dad to visit was so special. 10 days was the longest time he’s ever visited for and it was sad to see him leave. It’s funny how your relationship is growing stronger the older you get. I guess learning that your parents are just people too, is one of the biggest lessons ever.
Your Dad wasn’t emotionally or physically available growing up, but the relationship is so great now, I know you wouldn’t change it, for fear of the balance being shifted somehow.
Hearing him say ‘I love you’ to his grandson will stay in your heart forever, for they were not words he could easily say when you were a child, but now they come naturally.
D Man positively bloomed to be near him, and poor old Grandpapa needed a holiday when he left. I sincerely hope that he comes to visit regularly.

Family was always important to you, but never more so than now. Watching relationships blossom between your children and their grandparents is priceless, but also important.
History is important. Knowing where you come from is important.

One in and one out the door, because now your in-laws are here.
They are different to your people, and you need to remember that. They are good people, earnest people, and they love your family in their own gentle way.

It’s equally important for these relationships to grow as they are one half of your babies, and that half has as much history, as much richness, and as much love as yours.
Your Mama Bear will be here next week, too, so already next month is shaping up to be another special time.

Only one more month to go until the big Half Iron Man for Mister H. All these months of hard training, compromising and sacrificing are coming into fruition. One day you won’t remember any of that stuff, only the great achievement made by your man. He set himself a wild dream and he worked hard to make it happen. It’s commendable, and when you think of the physical toil it takes, it’s actually quite insurmountable for many people. Things will slow down a bit after that, at least for a minute until he gets the bug again.

It’ll be wonderful to all go as a family to see him compete. It will mean the world to him to have his babies, and of course, his wife, on the sideline….and Lord knows, he’ll need some moral support for his gruelling race.
You have not loved this Iron Man journey, but you vowed on that October day in 2010 to support each other’s dreams, and that is an important vow.

You’re doing really well on your project. You need to not let self-doubt creep in. Try to remember that you are absolutely good enough, for whatever you want. Just take the steps, one at a time, and reach for what you want. There is no space to believe you won’t succeed, but you must also remember that success takes many guises.
Just keep doing it because you love it, and trust that the rest will follow.

All in all, you’re doing so much better. You’ve got a great little groove on and your energy is good.

I love you heaps, don’t ever forget it.



A Backyard Picnic With Friends….Smoked Trout Salad

25 Sep picnic13

It was a glorious Spring day. After weeks of false starts, it was a divine 26 degrees and couldn’t have been more perfect for my backyard picnic.
Gorgeous friends, yummy food, laughter and love.
That’s what I’m talking about.

There will be more recipes from this day to come over the following weeks….until then, you’ll have to satisfy your hunger with this perfect Spring salad.

Yield – enough for 4 as main or 7 as part of a meal

You will need – 

  • 1 smoked trout
  • 2 cups pasta, penne or farfalle ideal
  • 1/2 spanish onion, finely chopped
  • 1 cup peas – frozen is fine
  • 1 cup broad beans – frozen is fine
  • 1 bunch asparagus, woody stalks removed and chopped into 1.5cm chunks
  • 3 big handfuls of rocket
  • 150g ricotta
  • juice of 1 lemon
  • 1/2 preserved lemon, flesh removed, finely chopped – if you have it
  • a big slug of good salad olive oil
  • lemon pepper if you have it or just salt and pepper will do

Cook your pasta in salted water. Drain and cool.
Pick your trout into a large bowl, taking care to remove all little bones. Throw in your rocket and chopped onions.
Toss your broad beans into a pot of boiling water, when tender – 3 or 4 minutes – drain and leave to cool. Remove the tough outer skin when they are cool enough to handle. Quickly blanch your asparagus, peas ensuring to leave them with a little bite. Drain and cool.
Toss your green vegetables onto your salad, add your pasta, preserved lemon, lemon juice and oil and ricotta.
Season generously and toss.

Tiny Human Beings Create Adult Human Zombies….. A few desperate words on baby sleep.

23 Sep

Somebody call me a whaaaaaambulance because I’m about to have a dirty great cry on your cyber shoulder.

I made a promise to myself about 3 months ago that I wasn’t going to bitch to you about the brain sapping exhaustion that goes hand in hand with mini-me munchkins. No one wants to read endless tomes about endless nights that culminate into endless exhaustion…..and I would say I’ve fairly well kept said promise, but I gotta break it….I just gotta…….cos I just gotta ask you guys -

Does anyone know anything about some kind of developmental brain fart that goes down at about 16 weeks?


Everything was going swimmingly. I was actually even bragging about Kiki’s sleep habits just a few weeks ago and now?

My bragging has bitten me on the butt and I have officially had the life sucked out of me by a be-dimpled, gurgling, zombie-maker.

I heard someone recently call it the four-month regression, but frankly, I don’t feel as though it’s a regression but she has never been as crapola at sleeping as she is at this present moment.
We’ve gone from a respectable two feeds a night, to a depressing three feeds, four other times of patting and shooshing and a sneak her into bed in the wee hours of dawn in an effort to get just a little bit of sleep before boy child awakens at dawn’s crack for a day of whirling dervish.

I feel as though the expression should be less ‘Sleeps like a baby’ and more ‘Sleeps like a crack-head going cold turkey’.

After 11 months of no sleep with D Man, I called in a Sleep Angel (as I wrote about here) and I’m wondering if the same action is required shortly, or am I just panicking?
I was so determined not to make the same mistakes, but have I unwittingly done so by soothing those cries, amplified by darkness, with the breast, or do I just hatch inherently scheisse sleepers?

I read an interesting blog post from Heart Mama about babies learning to sleep and she suggests that we should adjust our expectations of baby sleep and just leave them to their own devices, and they’ll get it eventually.
I think that sounds really beautiful, and organic, and gentle, but how many months of waking every hour, or half hour, or ten minutes do you struggle through before you decide enough is enough? Or do you just ride it out?

I’ve heard horror stories of kids not sleeping through the night still at 4, 5 and 6 years of age. Not going to bed nicely when they’re in school, or still waking multiple times…..oh god, kill me now. Just something fast, like a knitting needle through my ear.
It’s true that I have never met a grown up who still cried for mummy in the night…..I reckon they’re out there though.

Sleep deprivation is unquestionably a form of torture.

Sleep deprivation is used by torturers because it makes a person more suggestible, reduces psychological resistance and it reduces the body’s capacity to resist pain. Sleep deprivation can cause impaired memory and cognitive functioning, decreased short term memory, speech impairment, hallucinations, psychosis, lowered immunity, headaches, high blood pressure, cardiovascular disease, stress, anxiety and depression, according to Gretchen Borchelt, JD & Christian Pross, MD in ‘Systematic Use of Psychological Torture by US Forces’, Torture, vol.15(1), 2005

 (It forgot to mention car accidents)

Around here, Kiki, the cooing torturess, tortures me by night, and in turn, I torture Mister H and D Man by day with my consummate case of the irrits.

I do think that Kiki is still too young for sleep training, but I also know that 6 more months of this and my mind may be permanently bent, if not broken, and I will certainly be the size of a house, due to munching for energy.

I was trying to hang some washing out the other day and Kiki was screaming her little lungs out in the lounge……it was a beautiful day so the house was all open and I’m guessing you could hear her on the street, perhaps even in a neighbouring suburb.
Why am I guessing this, you ask?
Because a complete stranger came up to my gate and yelled out to me.

“Excuse me, do you have a baby?”

No, it’s a freaking dolphin making that noise in my lounge room, I thought. My narkiness is at an all time high when my sleep is at an all time low.

“I do” I replied, eyebrows raised as though in a dare.

“I think it’s crying”

No shit. To add insult to injury she looked at me like, by leaving Kiki crying for a minute while I hung out the washing, I was a child abuser.

Instead of being grateful, my tired, cranky-panted self wanted to throw something at her, but all I had in my hand was Mister H’s cycling shorts. I somehow don’t think they’d have quite the effect I was looking for. Instead, I gave a smile that probably looked look I was trying to swallow a cat turd and thanked her.

“Thank you, yes, I can hear her

I was so cranky with her, like it was her fault I was deathly tired, or that Kiki’s lung exercises were reverberating inside my brain. She hightailed from my gate pretty quickly. I think she may have got the vibe that cycling shorts to the head were, although not scary, imminent.

I love how everyone gives you the advice to sleep when the baby sleeps. Sometimes I even plan to, but you know what? Babies, and toddlers, have an innate sense of comedic timing. The very second you slip off your shoes, your head hits the pillows and your weary bones emit a little sigh of relief then one or t’other is up and at it.
Or the guy across the road starts his leaf blower. Or I remember something I forgot to do….like turn off the stove.
Tiredness is akin to temporary retardation. I forget words mid-sentence, leave the TV remote in the freezer, and doze dangerously whilst having an evening bath.

Anyway, I shan’t go on and on and on, I just wanted to have a little vent and ensure the whole world gets it when I say,

Find out what it means to me,
Oh, I’m cranky
Oh,(sock it to me, sock it to me) a little fatigued.
Yeah,(sock it to me, sock it to me) a little fatigued.

Possibly a tad delirious, too, me thinks???

Can’t imagine another reason I’d be channeling Aretha.


A tasty meal in ten minutes…..Green Vege Pesto revisited for Be A Fun Mum.

21 Sep

If you’ve been a Holsby-ite (as I affectionately refer to my posse) from the word dot, then you’ll remember my green vegetable and basil pesto, but if you’re one of the many who aren’t related to me to may have missed it.
I’ve had so many great responses from people about this recipe.
People with kids that don’t eat, have patted me on the back.
Difficult husbands have high fived me.

It’s actually made me a bit of a superstar in a really, really small circle…, in my head. Tiny, sure. Imaginary, perhaps….but there.

When my friend, Kelly, at Be A Fun Mum said she was looking for a quick, easy and delicious recipe for the whole family I knew exactly what the doctor ordered.

This little baby just does not get tired.

Does it have vegetables?         Check

Can you freeze it?                      Check

Is it super fast?                          Check

Will everyone love it?               Theoretically

Can you morph it into different meals for the entire family unit? Uh huh, indeedy. Yes siree, Bob….. You can.

My favourite kind of food is the kind that everyone in the house will eat with minimal fuss.  Most of the time, I don’t mind making a little dinner for my toddler and then cooking separately for us grown up type people, but then there are those days where time, and perhaps mojo,  is not on your side and you need a super quick option that leaves everyone happy.

This pesto is exactly that meal.

To continue reading please click here

If you’ve seen this recipe, do not despair, for in the next couple of days you shall have a strawberry frozen yoghurt recipe just in time to make the most of those cheap ass strawbs that are everywhere right now.

Have a beautiful day!


Grandpapa Takes Us To The Aquarium

19 Sep

Housework. I hate the word.

17 Sep

Today I’m going to share a very tragic story with you guys.

It’s a story about loss, and heartbreak. A tale of longing and hours pined away wishing to see someone again…. If only for one last scrub down and polish.

I have a dear friend who’s idea of a good time is spring cleaning her house. Messed up, huh?
Apparently, there are many people like this out in the world but I – me, moi – am not one of them.

I am not a natural born housekeeper, and it was only after flatting with this person, who shall remain nameless but whose name may rhyme with Schmichelle, for a number of years in my early 20’s that I was truly housebroken in the custodial arts. A year with her and I was down with regular sheet changing, shower scrubbing and her favorite mantra -

“If you have time to cook in the kitchen, you have time to clean it”

Which was approximately the polar opposite of my mantra at the time which was -

“If I ignore it long enough, someone else might clean it for me” – ie: Shcmichelle.

Ultimately, I’d say that living with her has made me the housekeeper I am today, but I am by no means known as a fastidious scrubber (except in some circles but that is for a different reason). The thing is, I do love a clean, tidy, sparkling house. A house that not only doesn’t have piles of tumbling papers, and toys, made solely of sharp corners, strewn around the floor just waiting to pounce under your unsuspecting foot in the night, but also a house that doesn’t have not-so-secret grime built up in the corners, and dust on the tops of the picture frames and crumbs, oh, the endless crummy crumbs, everywhere.
It’s quite the dilemma. It would seem that when I do spend a couple of hours rectifying the carnage, it is merely a matter of minutes before it explodes back to its former apocalyptic state.

When Mister H and I first got together, he had cleaners. He loves a clean house but is a rather messy man, just quietly. I am not being disloyal by giving this fact away, it is simply the way it is. I try, and try, to change his spots, but alas, a leopard my man remains.

Anyway, I digress. I really loved the cleaners.

Simon and Jenny were lovely people who were always very smiley and happy and we had very rudimentary chats, invariably involving charades, as they’re English wasn’t that crash hot, and my Mandarin is worse. I’d bake for them at Christmas, or give them a jar of jam when I’d made a batch.
We were buddies in my eyes.

At this juncture, I feel it is very important for me to add the fact that, although lovely, they were actually fairly shitty cleaners. They would just dust the fronts of things, leaving the backs to gather enough dust that you could knit a sweater for a small dog (as long as he didn’t have asthma), and cleaning Mister H’s bookshelf just seemed to elude them. Perhaps they had some form of Bachelor Bookshelf Blindness, and the more imposing and unattractive a piece of bachelor furniture it was, they couldn’t see it?

Then, one day it happened.

They asked for a pay rise. I was all for it.

Ten bucks more? Yeah, guys, sure thing, but would you mind, please, taking extra care with the dusting, particularly around the bookshelf?

(insert chirping crickets here)

Nada for two whole days and then this….

We don’t want to come anymore. Your keys are in the letterbox.

Just like that, we were dumped.
It was over.

Wendy Harmer recently said if you can’t clean your own house it’s too big for you, or some such blasphemy.
Is she on drugs?

I’ve spent the last two years pining for those guys. I didn’t realise how much I loved them until they were gone.
I’ve exhausted the last two days scrubbing the house as it was getting completely a little festy in the corners, and let me tell you, when I was on my hands and knees scrubbing that shower with Mister H’s toothbrush, I really pined for them and the smell of bleach and Pine-o-Clean that trailed in their wake.

If only I’d been less fussy about cleanliness – more like I am now, really – then perhaps all of this longing and heartache could have been avoided.

I vow to you all, my friends, one day I shall have a cleaner again. Mark my words….One. Sweet. Day.

Shhhhh, We are hunting Pot-Woasted Wabbit with Mustard and Pwunes.

15 Sep

I’m an adventurous eater, but Mister H is far more so than myself.

He’ll stretch to offally, brainy, insidey bits that I just can’t get my head around. He’s not silly though, he has the same train of thought as myself in the fact that if you’re ever going to eat something that challenges your brain, eat it in a fine dining restaurant.

The things a great chef can do with wacky ingredients is always inspirational and if you can put your judgemental ‘but I don’t like that’ pouting brain to one side and just chew, you may find yourself pleasantly surprised.

I have eaten rabbit a couple of times, always in this very situation. A brilliant chef has pimped my bunny so it’s unrecognisable and served stacked or drizzled and foamed and I eat a tiny morsel for an exorbitant cost. It may not sound like it, but I bloody love fine dining.

Another thing that has become a rare treat since spawning.

I’ve had rabbit rillettes, and rolled stuffed rabbit, both with martinis and wine under my belt, so I can’t properly recall the subtle nuances of the dishes.

Anyhoo, I’ve wanted to try cooking a rabbit for a few years but I’ve always been too….too…..ummmm, nervous? wary?
Not sure.

The only whole animal I’ve ever dealt with is a chicken and they’re not really cute in life so it doesn’t phase me. Does that make me shallow?

I have to admit to you that when I had that whole rabbit on my chopping board, I was a little bit challenged. Jointing it and prepping it wasn’t exactly difficult, but it’s sure not buying your cut ready from the butcher.
If you’re trying this, you can do that FYI, but I really wanted to do the full Monty.

I thought I would turn to the doyenne of cooking, Maggie Beer, for a little help with this. She’s into the down-home, on the farm, rustic stuff so I had a feeling she was going to be my best ally.

Her recipe called for a fat, farmed rabbit and all I could find was a wild one, so I knew that I would need to adjust my cooking time accordingly as wild rabbits are much leaner and therefore would have a tendency to become tough if not treated with the appropriate love and care. She also called for the kidneys and liver, but you know what?
I’m challenging myself plenty enough as it is, thank you very much, Mrs Beer.

I also need lemon thyme but baby brain made me grab rosemary instead. Dufus.
I’ve used dry thyme instead.

Yield : 4

You will need :

  • 1 x 1.6kg rabbit
  • 2 stalks sage
  • 6 stalks lemon thyme
  • 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
  • 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil, plus extra for cooking
  • 12 small pickling onions
  • 40g unsalted butter
  • 100g pitted prunes
  • 1/3 cup verjuice
  • 1/2 cup chicken stock
  • sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Joint your rabbit into front and back legs and saddle. Cut your saddle into three or four pieces. Using a sharp knife remove any sinew from the saddle.
Combine your rabbit pieces with mustard, sage, thyme and olive oil. Cover with plastic film and leave at room temperature for one hour.

Meanwhile, blanch onions in a saucepan of simmering water for 10 minutes. Cool slightly, then peel and set aside.

Heat your butter with a little olive oil added in a heavy based fry pan over a medium heat until it is nut brown. Add rabbit pieces and gently cook over a low heat, turning occasionally, for 4 minutes or until lightly coloured, then take out of pan and set aside. Toss your onions into the pan and give them a little colour for 5 minutes or until golden. Return rabbit to pan, add prunes, then deglaze with verjuice.

Add your stock and simmer, covered, over a medium heat for 6 minutes.
Turn rabbit pieces over, then reduce heat and cook until tender. Saddle pieces are cooked when they feel pliable to the touch, and muscles separate easily from leg bone. If cooked, then remove and set aside to rest. Otherwise, continue cooking until tender, taking care not to overcook. Remove rabbit, then simmer pan juices over a high heat until reduced and syrupy.

Return rabbit to sauce, season to taste and serve.

I served it with delicious creamy parmesan polenta and asparagus.
The verdict?

Well, it was delicious, if a little tough.
I think next time, if I had a wild rabbit, I will go for a slow cook and aim to make it falling it apart yummy because the flavour of this was all that!
I would only use farmed rabbit for this recipe, however, I think chicken or pork would be great with these flavours.

Where memories are made……

13 Sep

I don’t read a massive amount of blogs, and many of the ones I do are humorous or food related, or both.
If foodie blogs are food porn for me, then Dianne Gray must be my brain porn.

You guys know by now that my mind thinks in a slightly different manner to most, and Dianne makes that kooky little mind of mine think…and feel.

Recently, I read a wonderful post by Dianne about first memories. It was fairly simple, mostly she was just writing what people had told her, and her thoughts about that. Something about it created a pulling sensation deep inside me and the little hamsters in my brain climbed into their wheel and started to run. If you want to check out that post, it’s here.

Dianne mentions that sometimes she feels that people first memories and their careers are directly correlated. When I asked my Facebook peeps their thoughts, I can  concur with her in at least one case.

I know I’ve been writing a few guest blogs of late, but I’m really enjoying being a blog slut, and if I still share it with you, then I’m not technically being unfaithful. Right?

I sent this over to Dianne because I wanted to share with her my thoughts and feelings that her blog had drawn from my well.

It was morning and I was sitting on my nappy padded butt on the landing between two flights of stairs. It was warm because sun was streaming through the window above me and the dust motes were dancing in the rays. I wondered what they were, because it seemed as though there were so many ‘things’ in the air but they just disappeared into nothingness once they hit the cool of the shade.
I had a tube of forest green paint which was on the ground between my chubby feet.
I had squeezed some of the paint onto the biscuit coloured sisal and I couldn’t pick it up, so I was trying to poke it into the grooves to hide it.

That’s it. That’s my earliest childhood memory. When I described it to my mother we worked out that I was just two years old.

Why did my brain pick this memory to cling on to? I know for a fact that there were more exciting moments, or more amazing experiences than this. There is photographic evidence.

To continue reading, just click here.

What are your first memories? How old were you?


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